


A Beautiful Place to Belong

by speckledhound



Series: Holmes Family Sanctuary [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Post-Wedding, Unrequited Love, breakdown - Freeform, sadness/guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:23:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speckledhound/pseuds/speckledhound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d left the wedding early in hopes of giving someone he loved a ‘happily ever after.’ Such a thing was not possible with a man like him in the picture. No one would miss him; there would be no regrets. He could still see the huge, genuine smiles from the faces of John and Mary; how infectious they were, how in love…The music blaring loudly in his ears, the nervousness that had overcome him. Everyone had someone but him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beautiful Place to Belong

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again; here I am with part two of this series, and although it's not as family-heavy, that love is still there, and John plays a bigger role in this one. It can be read as a part of the series or alone. Hope you enjoy~ Note: I researched the effects of morphine while writing this, but of course I can in no way be considered any sort of expert, so if there is something that needs altering please see my profile for contact details.

He’d left the wedding early in hopes of giving someone he loved a ‘happily ever after.’ Such a thing was not possible with a man like him in the picture. No one would miss him; there would be no regrets. He could still see the huge, genuine smiles from the faces of John and Mary; how infectious they were, how in love…The music blaring loudly in his ears, the nervousness that had overcome him. Everyone had someone but him.

Sherlock Holmes was about to plunge further into a lamentable part of his life that could only cause him to drown.

After an agonizingly long cab ride, he came at last upon his flat, trembling as he ran his hand along the bumps and grooves of the golden knocker that had once, long ago, symbolized something exciting and new. Not an empty house in which he stumbled upon past lives reaching out to meet him and pull him back down, further down, drowning…

The door seemed to stick against its hinges- or perhaps it was a part of Sherlock fighting to stay out on the dark, chilling streets in the quiet hours of the early morning. He walked inside, his breathing becoming slow and heavy as he shut the door using his back, falling against it. His hands covering his face, sometime between entering and the events that followed he had become a slumped over mess of expensive coat and gasping tears. A noise from far off in the din- Mrs. Hudson? No. No, no no no no, he could not let her see him like this. He could not let anyone. Although it seemed at this point, it was Mrs. Hudson who had not been blind to his feelings, aggravating John with her harmless questions and assumptions. The sliver of a thought that John felt the same was gone now. It had to be.

 Using the wall to help him, Sherlock got to his feet and took a deep breath.

It was too late for John now. He’d missed his chance. He’d missed it by a longshot, in seemingly millions upon millions of forms that Sherlock could not figure out a way to contain. But he’d missed them. It could not be Sherlock’s fault for having to be away, he was protecting him, after all. At his very grave, he’d heard John beg for him not to be dead…why ask if he did not want wait and thought it better to fill the void Sherlock seemed to have left?

Bedroom … bedroom, where was it? Just around the corner … He could make it.

For all of the good Mycroft and John used to try to do, keeping an eye on his behaviors and trying to constantly reassure themselves that Sherlock would never use again, for fear of him hurting himself… They could never outwit him, oh no; he laughed to himself. Mycroft always claimed to be smarter but he couldn’t keep a hold on him forever…

  And with that he came upon the bottle, stashed not under an obvious floorboard or tucked away somewhere in a drawer. He only had to lift his lamp and open the small door at the bottom to get to the compartment he’d fashioned himself years ago. He’d never thought to open it until now.

 Shaking, he had one final thought before he put what was inside the bottle to use. If John were here to see him, he hoped he could forgive him.

  One pill balanced in the center of his palm; a morphine time release pill. He wasn’t even sure where he’d obtained these anymore, and it didn’t matter. It wasn’t what he was used to, but it would have to do. If he took it orally it wouldn’t come on as strong, nor work very fast. An infinite string of information he knew about morphine pills charged through his mind like a loose cannon. If he crushed it up now, it would undoubtedly last him about five hours, and give him the lift he needed.

 Euphoria.

 He needed that now more than ever, because he was sure now his real feelings could ever match that again.

 He stopped to think- euphoria. Was that what he would describe his time with John?

 Certainly.

 He crushed the pill up snorted it.a

 For a short while he sat staring intently at the light beyond his bedroom door, waiting for it to take effect. It wouldn’t for nearly a half hour. A hand went to the bed and he hauled himself up onto his feet. And he walked, keeping a hand on the wall out of an internal fear of some sort of immediate effect on his nervous system that might cause him to fall.

 Making his way out the door, he stopped in a moment of panic. His heart felt like it hurt. Was it …John? He couldn’t… the street, it spun.

 But he was happy.

 A cab. He outstretched his arm, keeping his footing on the curb. A fog escaped his mouth, his breath in the cold. He eyed it strangely. That couldn’t be right; he felt so warm, so warm…

 Sherlock got in the cab.

 “Where to?”

 He’d had an address written down on a piece of paper that he’d always kept tucked inside the deepest pocket of his coat. Just in case he’d gotten himself into a dangerous situation. It was the only place to go, despite the fact that he acted as if it was the last place.

 Sherlock handed the slip to the cabbie. Then he sat back, looking as if the smelly old cab seat was the most comfortable place in the world. He earned himself a strange look.

 He knew that the pill hadn’t taken its full effects yet, and that was what he was running from. It would tuck everything away and make him feel nothing for consequences, he simply wouldn’t care. Part of him was so afraid, not afraid as he was in Dartmoor when he went with John to Baskerville. And it wasn’t as he’d felt on John’s stag night, either.

 John’s stag night…them, lying down on the stairs together.

 One thing was clear, he needed to get to his parents’ house. And it was not going to be a short drive.

 His hands dove into his pockets again and he cleared his throat loudly, trying to keep himself in synch with what was going on. Stay alert. He rubbed the nape of his neck anxiously, watching the lights of London pass by.

 

And he hated himself; he hated himself for all of it, being a danger to John, causing him to suffer. He hated himself for being so affected. Caring is not an advantage. His brother’s voice rang over and over again in his mind. Mycroft would agree. There was no one on his side, it seemed now.

 The cab…stopping. It had stopped, hadn’t it? Yes… No, he wasn’t sure. His hands found the door and thrust it open.

 “OI, MATE!”

 Sherlock fell out of the moving cab, rolling against the hard ground, his hands scraping and face bruising.

 The morphine said it didn’t matter.

 He lay there on the ground and watched as the cab sped off; honking in the distance.

 Mud and filth covering his coat. He felt it with his hands, rubbing a bit of it between two fingers. His hands…Red…brown?  He felt a wave of nausea come over him, and it did not leave. More than once he knelt on the cold pavement as he was convinced he was going to vomit, but he couldn’t seem to be able to swallow.

  Taking a look around, Sherlock tried to get a grasp as to where he was.  He knew with certainty his cognitive thinking abilities as a whole were not affected by the drug keeping a hold on his systems, so it was not hard to tell. It wasn’t far now, just up the block was his parents’ home. He put a hand on the gate. He was pleased he was not hurting. What an amazing effect a drug could have on the body.

 Undoing the latch, he strode into the front yard and up to the door. It wasn’t difficult to get inside; his parents locked the door usually, because of their justifiable fear of what their sons’ jobs brought upon the ones they held dear. Foolish of them to think that could keep anyone out. Sherlock picked the lock open quite quickly.

 “M-mum, mum,” he called, although not loud enough for anyone to hear. Again, his world was spinning. Sherlock Holmes could do things most men could never dream of doing, but drugs could bring him down to the weakest possible point. He held both of his hands to the wall to keep himself standing upright, and to an observer it would most likely appear as if he was trying to climb up it.

 “MUM.”

 The weak man brought a chair down with him as he fell. His mind told him he wanted to smile.

Everything felt right now; he felt good.

Thumping down the stairs and faces in his field of vision.

 “Hi, Mum. Dad.” He nodded up at them, registering their looks of shock and horror but not truly caring.

 “My boy, what have you DONE.” Mrs. Holmes was frantic, holding Sherlock’s hands in her own and peering down at his face.

 “What did you take,” she hissed, dusting off his coat and pulling it off him so that he was now lying there in a clean, well-tailored suit.

 

“Mmmm,” he answered.

 “Sherlock, your face, your hands!” His father ran off to fetch something and returned shortly; while waiting, Sherlock looked up at his mum casually, the anger overwhelming her face.

 “Dear,” called Mr. Holmes, passing something to his wife. Their son remained motionless as something was applied to the cuts and bruises on his face and hands, small bandages applied as well.

 A phone was being used now, Sherlock recognized the typical beeping noises that his parents never bothered to deactivate. They were calling someone. John?

  He didn’t care.

Curling up on the ground, he shut his eyes.

 “I do sincerely hope you don’t think you’re just going to rest and enjoy your little euphoria kick, Sherlock, this is going to be sorted out. You’ve got- oh you’ve got some on your coat.”

His father was pacing with his cellular phone against his ear, but left to go into another room to finish out the call.

Sherlock sat up, grumbling as he did so. His parents weren’t supposed to be here, did he come here? Yes, he’d come here, but why?

“Mum,” he uttered quietly, practically clinging against her. He was lost in his confusion, time seemed to be moving at a different pace and he did not seem to be remembering. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he just wanted to be happy.

Mrs. Holmes put a hand to her face to muffle the emotions she held back, clearly upset.

Sherlock understood now. On a whim he had attempted to drown all of his feelings with something that was but artificial, but surely more time had passed than he had thought. He was going through a crash now and nothing was making sense. His skin felt cold and clammy, and his entire world felt like it was spinning. “Please stop,” he whined out loud. It did not.

During the long drive it took for John and Mycroft to drive out to the Holmes’ house together, Mrs. Holmes sat with her youngest son pressing a warm, wet cloth to his forehead. Her heart was racing with panic and sadness, but she knew John would be here soon to make things right.

“You stupid, you utter TWAT,” John shouted, racing inside the house, Mycroft following in a calmer demeanor.

“Here, I brought Naloxone, I could get in so much trouble for you, I’ve half a mind to throw this stupid antidote at your face.” John fumed, ignoring the hurt looks he was receiving from the rest of the Holmes family. “My wedding night, ruined…”

“John.” He looked to Mycroft. “You do know…why, don’t you? My brother may have had a reckless past with substances in the past, but these days, they aren’t his little play-things. I daresay you are foolish…” The elder Holmes brother twirled his umbrella and stalked off to the sitting room.

John stared at them all as he began to fully process what was going on.

“Sherlock…” He knelt down, taking the warm cloth from his mum and wiping his forehead with it.

“No,” was all Sherlock said, closing his eyes, his mouth now tightly closed as if in tremendous pain.

“Wh-…what?”

“Here, come here, let’s get you up, come on. You can’t go to sleep you’ve got to take this pill.” Relief overcame him when Sherlock stirred and reached up, allowing his arms to be wrapped around John’s neck and then carried to the couch.

“That’s right, sit up- here we go, thanks…” He quieted once he was handed a small glass of water from Mrs. Holmes, frightened now by the mistake he had made and how it reflected poorly on his character.

“Here we are.” He helped Sherlock to swallow the pill and kept an arm around him to try to calm him down, and to let him know that he understood now.

For an eternity they sat there, John listening to Sherlock’s breathing return to normal after John’s shouting had elevated his pulse.

“Do…do forgive me, John.”

John sighed, letting Sherlock move closer and rest his head against the top of his own; his skin was getting warmer now. But his voice had a strange tone to it, sort of far off and distant sounding, full of sadness and self-loathing. Placing his arm ever-so-gently against Sherlock’s back, he coaxed him into a different position, one that, before today, would have made John tremble with the crossing of boundaries. But he knew now it was meant to be like this, all of the boundaries were broken. He was lying on his back now, head comfortably pressed against a decorative pillow, Sherlock’s weak, lithe body shuddering in his arms. His eyelids were heavy, but John was sure the antidote had done its work. The heartbeat jumping off of him had quickened to its normal pace, and a bit of color had returned to him, save for his bandaged hands and the medical gauze covering the reddish scrapes across his forehead and cheeks.

Sherlock’s body was limp, yet creaking, something fragile and taken for granted, ready to snap if John made any wrong movements.  

The sound of footsteps interrupted his racing thought process, and for a moment, John’s heart reached such speeds.

“Hmmhm, cozy like a pair of newborn kittens, are we?”

John closed his eyes and swallowed. Mycroft was still standing nearby when he looked again, but what John received from him was not mockery, perhaps it was a look of pity. And then he was gone.

It was always John’s fault.

He could not let this happen again.

The newlywed decided to let Sherlock sleep; he would not move and disturb him, nor would he leave his side. There would be hell to pay very soon, but for now, while all was calm and Sherlock could not be harmed, John wanted nothing more than for him to heal.

Eternities passed; Sherlock came to his senses, drunk from sleep, yet still not himself. Everything was coming to him now; pulling away from John and leaning one arm against the arm of the sofa, he curled up against the other end of the couch, leaving a napping John to himself.

His surroundings were disorienting; the room seemed tilted, the darkness creeping out and light shining its way against mirrors and glass, although dimmed by the curtains shutting most of it out. Sherlock grunted and moved to rub his eyes, only to discover the bandages wrapped around the majority of his hands. He blinked at them blearily.

“MmmMhmp, dad?” Sherlock leaned forward and squinted at the man seated on the ground a couple of feet in front of him.

Sherlock breathed deeply and scrunched his nose whilst still assessing how he felt, Mr. Holmes moving closer and leaning over him.

“Feeling alright? You should be well rested by now, your mum and I couldn’t keep up during the night but luckily John was here to look after you- no, no no no, Sherlock, stay put- yes, see, you’re a bit wobbly on your feet. Trust me on this, son, stay put. I’ll be back with something to eat, your stomach’s been growling at me for too long of a while.” He looked down at him sternly, wanting badly to ruffle his curly bedhead, but he remembered the solemnity of the situation and simply cast a kind smile while Sherlock tilted his head, scrunching his nose up again and blinking rapidly. Before he knew it, a plate of buttered toast was on his lap, and a soft clink told him a warm beverage could be found to his right.

He murmured his thanks and nibbled at the edge of the toast, hurriedly wiping crumbs from his lips as the sound of the man across from him on the sofa began to stir.

“What time is it?”

Sherlock was silent. His heart dropped, remembering John was married. And he spent his wedding night practically cradling him in his arms.

Without a warning he longed for a taste of the high he had experienced last night, it had lasted so long but was over much too soon. His hands gripped the edges of the plate he was holding and he tapped it nervously.

“Oh- oh, fuck. Christ.” Sherlock watched John fumble with his mobile phone out of the corner of his eye, and then met his gaze. “Sherlock. Are you alright?” Recollection of the panic he had very recently experienced flashed across his face.

“‘m okay,” Sherlock replied quietly, pulling his knees to his chest and rubbing toast crumbs idly off the knees of his pajama bottoms.

John eyed him. Sherlock could be cold, but he’d become pleasantly warmer since he’d returned to London, and John had come to love that side of him. He could tell he was not feeling his usual self right now, and it wasn’t the aftermath of the drugs warring on his body that were causing it.

  “Sherlock, I need to address- I need to talk some things over with you, alright, listen...I was angry yesterday, to put it lightly- hell, still am- but I didn’t quite- I didn’t quite understand...I...please don’t ever do that to me again, the position you’ve put me in, Sherlock, it was because of me, you never told me, I couldn’t-”

“You couldn’t see?” The words came out as a hiss, a film of glimmering liquid coating Sherlock’s brilliantly colored eyes, burning into John.

“Sherlock…”

He was shuddering now, gasping as he struggled to cage the cries that were coming out of him.

“I thought you could see it. I always could- from you, John- don’t tell me you never- don’t tell me I was alone in this, don’t tell me there’s one less place for me to belong and that that is in your life.”

A wave of nausea passed over John, consuming him. He’d made a mistake, the largest in his life; he’d walked to Sherlock’s grave two years ago, begged him not to be dead, and could not wait to give him what he wanted when he returned.

“I wanted you to have...a normal life, the life you deserve, John, you can not ever get such a thing from me. But I could not accept it, and I did not want to ruin it, John, you aren’t getting into what you think you are.” Sherlock swallowed back more tears and sat there in silence, his lips trembling, his shroud shattering.

“What...what do you mean?”

“John Watson, if a family life with doctoring pleasantries is what you crave, perhaps it is best if you do it without the burden I will bring you.” He chuckled briefly, and then continued his rapid thought process “You wanted to fill a gap, yes? A gap I left in my absence. So fill it. Don’t worry yourself over the troubles I look to get myself into.”

John sat open-mouthed, the nausea overwhelming him now. If this is what Sherlock was thinking now, after being away and expecting a happy welcome with open-arms, he was more worried than ever.

“What do I do. What..”

He hadn’t even realized he’d asked out loud, fighting back tears himself. Part of him felt strangely wonderful, amazed at how this wall had broken down between them, finally after two years of having known one another and sharing the unique bond they had created, and after two years being apart.

John composed himself, he looked away from Sherlock and then closed his eyes. Deep breath after deep breath.

“Sherlock.”

“Hm.”

“Please, you’re...you’re speaking as if you’re useless, meaningless even, but you’re so obviously not.” His voice was trembling now, and he blinked rapidly in the face of the man sitting beside him; he wish he knew whether or not Sherlock knew how curious and sensitive he looked. With another breath, John continued. “Sometimes, you have to realize, what you do affects...affects other people, so...I don’t..I could never live with myself if something happened to you again, so please, please, Sherlock, for me, please don’t go somewhere where I can’t wait for you.”

He couldn’t keep himself from crying now, even once Sherlock shuffled closer to him and swung his legs up onto the couch so that he was hugging John’s body with his and shaking against him.

“You think you don’t belong, Sherlock, but you always do. I can’t go on whatever mad journey I’ve just thrown myself into without you, alright? You- you hear me, you big  _git_.” John draped an arm around Sherlock’s back and looked up at Mr. Holmes as he walked past casually, although John could tell he paused for a fraction of a second in front of the couch, yearning to reach out but leaving it in his hands. And John did not pretend to be rubbing his eyes or brushing something off of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You’ll always be the one who saved me Sherlock.” He held one of his hands in his own, squeezing it tight.

“And you I,” a soft voice answered, leaning into him and positioning himself so that their foreheads were pressed firmly together.

Perhaps Sherlock could not control all that John Watson chose to do in his life, but he could finally be sure that there would always be a place for him to belong. The days would go on, and these two would survive, not because of luck or chance, but because of one another.

 

 


End file.
